Ann Aguirre - Blue Diablo

He sighed and tapped the steering wheel. His answer came when he swung into the well-manicured drive and gave the keys over to the valet attendant. We stepped out of the driving rain and into another world, one filled with lavish service and utter opulence. Assessing the foyer in a glance, he said softly, “It’s like one of the grand old hotels in Europe. Can I get a masseuse in the room?”

“I expect so. You can get just about anything here, as long as you can pay for it. They’ll even do your shopping, although the mall across the street is closed right now.”

He nodded like that was good to know, and I helped him with check-in. I’ve noticed most service people speak enough English to do business in major commercial cities, but they think better of you if you speak enough Spanish to do it that way; it’s an almost intangible shift, a near smile and a lightening in the eyes.

Once upstairs, I left Chance in the hands of a masseuse who looked as though she wouldn’t mind relaxing him in ways that were only permitted in the zona de tolerancia in Nuevo Laredo. He was sound asleep when I finally crawled out of the sunken marble tub, pink and wrinkled like a newborn. I stood for a moment, wrapped in my plush hotel bathrobe, and watched him sleep. Somehow he always looked innocent in repose, a ridiculous premise if you knew him at all.

As I turned, I heard him whisper, “No, don’t go.”

I didn’t hesitate because he wasn’t alive in the moment with me but remembering in dreams, perhaps remembering someone else as well. In a remote corner of my mind, I wondered whether he had spoken those words aloud as the door closed behind me. Could I believe he’d loved me once?

I couldn’t answer that as I lay down on the couch, wrapping myself up in spare blankets. However, I did know it would be a bad idea to sleep with Chance again, even to lay in the same bed, because I had a history of finding it hard to tell him no. I didn’t want to repeat old mistakes, just get through the search with as much grace as possible.

We breakfasted en suite, fruit and yogurt for him, chilaquiles for me. This morning, he looked remote and well-tailored in dove gray trousers paired with a mist and mauve striped button-down. To look at him, you’d almost swear he was gay, too pretty to like girls.

I put on a long skirt and a peasant blouse and kept a green cardigan out just in case it turned cool, one of those long retro sweaters with a belt. All told, I possessed a delightful hippie chic, and I took pleasure in the way Chance squinched up his eyes.

Three hours later, after a painless border crossing, we arrived in Laredo. I had left the U.S. before they changed passport requirements, but they don’t look too hard at red-haired women at the border. Chance called the cop in charge from the car, who agreed to make himself available at ten a.m. I wasn’t looking forward to it because cops typically got that look when Chance said a victim’s family wanted me to examine the personal effects. I preferred private consultations, as life hadn’t left me any love for local law enforcement.

By the time we parked outside the station house, I’d worked up a nice set of nerves. “Is he going to give me a hard time?”

“I don’t think so. He’s not your typical asshole.”

As we walked into police headquarters, a sandstone municipal building that could have doubled as a mental institution, I rubbed my fingertips back and forth over the new scabs on my palm. In response, he brushed his hand across my shoulder, the sort of thing he’d done eighteen months ago. I used to take heart from his touch. Now I merely hunched my shoulders, glad I didn’t have to deal with Laredo in summer. I thought we’d have to wade through a lot of bureaucratic bullshit, but a detective stood waiting for us at the desk.

“Thanks for making time.” Chance shook hands with him, and they exchanged polite words.

My hormones gave a little skip as I gave him the once-over: an intriguing mix of long, tall Texan in battered boots, touched with Latin heat. He had legs that stretched forever in jeans faded almost to white, not the kind bought with designer “wear” but Levi’s washed till the seams and creases got thin. He’d clipped his badge to his belt in plain sight.

As I checked out the rest of him, I admired shoulders showcased by a rumpled white shirt and a forest green blazer. He had a striped tie stuffed in his right jacket pocket, probably to satisfy the letter of the dress code. Nice face, I decided, if scruffy and unshaven. Frosting the hunk cake was a tousled mess of tawny, sun streaked hair.

The beauty of being short was that guys didn’t usually notice me eating them with my eyes. Of course, most often, their disregard never changed unless they saw me handle. Still, apart from Chance, I tended to attract Lone Gunman types. They appeared to sense there was something different about me, more than the retrofunky exterior, and if I permitted it, they’d commit me to their lifelong quest to prove the existence of the paranormal.

The joke was on them; I was the paranormal.

I concluded my visual inventory of the cop’s assets. Out of my league, I thought with a mental sigh, and a lawman to boot. Crying shame . But as I raised my eyes, I saw the guy regarding me out of bitter chocolate eyes.

“See something you like?” His smile said he knew I had.

Shit. Caught me. I’d figured he’d be talking with Chance for at least five minutes before they got around to me.

“Just window-shopping.” I shoved my hands in my sweater pockets.

“Thinking about a purchase down the line?”

Despite feeling like an ass, I grinned. “Now, that’d be illegal, unless we were in the zona , wouldn’t it? Otherwise I’d ask for rates.”

He extended a hand. “Jesse Saldana. I’m an investigator with the Capers unit.”

I was familiar enough with the jargon to know he meant the Crimes Against Persons unit, whose purview ranged from terrorist threats to homicide to missing persons. “Corine Solomon.”

I imagined spelling it out for him. C-O-R-I-N-E, rhymes with Doreen. You want to write it down? And here’s my cell number.

That would never happen, of course. I lacked the chutzpah to pull off such a maneuver. Plus, I was pretty sure it would be bad form to try to pick up a guy right in front of my ex.

After a moment’s hesitation, I gave him my right hand. We shook; I felt an odd shock, as if we’d sparked static off each other. I almost sighed in relief when he let go. I still don’t like touching strangers. Though I know it doesn’t work that way, I can’t quite rid myself of the fear that I’ll suddenly start reading people like I do objects, and I can’t imagine anything more objectionable or invasive.

Chance stepped in then. “You said we could look at my mother’s purse?”

Nobody else would’ve noticed, but his mouth had pulled tight. If nothing else, I’d succeeded in pissing him off. Maybe I’d flirt a little more. The good detective didn’t seem to take it wrong.

“Well,” Saldana said. “Let’s take a walk to my office and talk about that.”

Uh-oh. That sounded like we were about to get played. Chance didn’t look happy.

He led us down a long hallway painted in the bile green reserved for government buildings. The floors were shiny, though, as the whole building looked pretty new. Saldana shared an office with another investigator, it seemed. At least there was another desk, laden with empty coffee cups and McDonald’s wrappers, but the other guy wasn’t around. After he shut the door, he invited us to sit, which we did, and offered us coffee, which we declined. I felt vaguely disappointed because I hadn’t seen a single doughnut box. What a gyp.